agricola's Profile

17 Dec 2004

Eb 1 Neezer rubbed his hands in delight as he pressed the submit button. ‘That’ll make ‘em squirm’, he mused as he wrung his hands in delight. He’d had a good evening: amid the jocularity and flirting-which he hated-he’d managed to inject a carefully calculated portion of nastiness and bile. ‘Soppy bunch of bastards’, he thought as he clicked on the photo ad section, hoping to get a glimpse of some naked flesh to send him to bed happy. He liked being a member on this Forum: so many posts to which he could respond in a nasty way. He’d been banned twice-and expected to be again-‘but so what’, he thought, ‘they’re all tossers anyway. They’re only after a quick grope, just like I am, all that talk of friendship makes me sick!’
But the computer wasn’t responding.
Suddenly the screen went blank; he bashed his keyboard and tried to switch off. ‘Shit’, he said, a poxy virus.
‘I’m not a virus Eb’, said a voice, ‘they don’t survive in Stockport’. It was then that the face appeared on the screen: thick dark glasses, US Army cap worn at jaunty angle and smiling eyes that seemed to dance around the screen.’ Who are you?’ said Eb, somewhat disturbed. ‘Aw, c’mon, c’mon’, said the face, ‘give a Master Sergeant some respect around here! Listen Eb, do me a favour, and take a look at this, eh bud? It’s how it was.’
Suddenly a picture appeared. It was a room. A room filled with people, all with little white labels on their clothes. Some were hugging, some were dancing, and some were sitting in small groups, talking. A man was placing a small plastic duck into various cleavages, much to the delight of all. Laughter filled the air; many were kissing. Suddenly a man pulled an artificial breast out of the dress he wore and all around collapsed in fits of laughter.
‘Where is this?’ muttered Eb, ‘Who are these daft bastards?’
‘Aw, c’mon, c’mon’, said the voice, ‘these are happy, happy people! Lighten up Eb baby, join in. This is your big chance, soldier!’
‘Oh, piss off’, Eb grunted, this is a dream, I must have fallen asleep at the keyboard.’
The face disappeared.
Eb rubbed his eyes and stood up. He flicked on his television to catch the smut programme on Channel 5, looking forward to a little pleasure before bed. But it wasn’t on. Instead, the picture showed a car pulling in to a drive. Two people got out; one wore a Santa hat and carried a bottle wrapped in gold paper. They held hands as they rang the doorbell. The door opened and framed the figure of a man standing with his head up his arse, his wife behind him. He stood up and threw open his arms.’ Merry Christmas’ he yelled and all four hugged each other. Behind them, a timid, bald man in a prisoner’s clothing muttered a shy ‘hello’. A lady that looked like Helen Mirren joined him and they closed the door and moved to a front room where other people sat around, laughing, drinking and cracking jokes. They appeared to be in fancy dress: a Red Indian Squaw, a caveman, a Fingerbob, a Dalek…. they seemed to be enjoying each other’s company. ‘Silence!’, yelled the host, having extracted his head from his posterior again, ‘May I propose a toast, at this Christmas time… to friends!’ Glasses chinked in syncopated agreement. ‘To friends’, echoed the repost. The host turned to the camera, smiling, ‘Eb 1 Neezer!’ he said, the babble from the crowd dying away, come and join us. This is how it is now.’
Silence ensued. Eb stood transfixed, gazing at the screen. Slowly he began to move towards it…but then jabbed the off button with swiftness that spoke of hidden hatred and much more besides.
‘You can piss off as well!’ he screamed, yanking the plug from the socket, ‘You’re all bloody mad, that cyberspace has got into your heads!’ he stormed up to his room and gazed out of his window at the dark garden, panting with rage. Gradually he calmed down and lay on his unmade bed.
He awoke some time later. He didn’t notice her at first: she didn’t speak, merely sitting on the edge of his bed and watching, her long hair cascading from beneath the hood of her dark cloak. When he did see her he gave a gasp and sat bolt upright; she didn’t move.
‘OK, who let you in? Whose idea of a joke is this? C’mon, piss off back to whatever brothel they hired you from.’ He didn’t sound convincing: the stain spreading across his mattress gave him away. Still she remained motionless.’ OK bitch, if you want it rough, I’ll give it you rough!’ He sounded even less convincing now. Slowly she rose and beckoned him, backing towards the door. She turned and began to descend the stairs, a strange progression reminiscent more of gliding than of walking. He followed her, as if on a leash.
The computer was on. She pointed to it and signalled him to sit down. He obeyed, childlike. He looked at the screen and saw his log-on page; robotically he typed in the familiar digits. The message that came in answer was brief: ‘This site is no longer available.’ He noticed the date, 24th December 2005. She beckoned him to the window and pointed outside to where a road ran up toward the cemetery. He walked to the window, fearing what he would see. He followed her finger and saw, to his horror, a man that looked like him, only older, sitting on the garden bench, watching people walk by. He spoke to no one and no one spoke to him. As he sat, it seemed that hundreds of people passed him by, all ignoring him. The sky lightened and darkened; the sun rose and set. But still he sat there alone until, as the sun set once more, he slumped forward, clutching his arm, and spilled from the bench onto the wet ground.
‘Oh no, for God’s sake!’ He turned to the look at the woman, but she was gone. ‘Don’t leave me like this! I know that I’ve spoiled a lot of things, but I never realised any of this. Give me one more chance! I just thought that I was better than them….but I realise that…’
Suddenly his computer screen lit up.
He dashed over to it, hammered in his password and yelped with glee as the familiar homepage beamed at him. He gazed at all the Christmas greetings and laughed with joy. Pms-he had TEN PMs! He’d never had one before-other than those to tell him he was banned. He opened them and drank in the warm greetings. He got to the last one: it was from the lady that looked like Helen Mirren. It wished him a Merry Christmas and welcomed him to the site. It described the characters of the various members, invited him to a New Year social event and explained that there was now a spare place at her table as the shy, bald bloke in the prisoner’s outfit had disappeared.